


the bet

by Honora



Category: Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Pining, Too much fluff, i probably overdid it with how many alike clothes they own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honora/pseuds/Honora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America thinks Kate wears too much purple. Kate thinks America wears too much <em>America.</em><br/> <br/>So they bet on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bet

**Author's Note:**

> meant to cover the 'wearing each other's clothes' item on [ this ](http://caseyblevins.co.vu/post/91728314580/important-ship-tropes-fake-dating-secret) post.

The thing is, Kate was unprepared to meet America that day.  

Not that it would have turned out much different if she had been, but. They could have _engaged_  in _activities_  together, of the harmless variety, and America could have been distracted away from ever stepping foot on Kate’s trailer at all, and then nothing of this would have happened.  

Probably.  

But then, maybe it would, because it’s _America_ , and Kate tends to run her mouth around America with or without preparation.  

It’s a problem.   

But as it were, Kate never got the time to over think it, because she _literally_  slammed into America, so in between recognition and hitting the ground, she didn't get the time to come up with a plan.  

America grunts, teeth just a little bared, but it’s her own fault, if you ask Kate. Has she never seen a movie in her life? You shouldn't loiter on sidewalks in cities where a super hero lives, which Los Angeles is totally a part of now, thank you very much. Or, streets in general. Or, anywhere.  

Professional hazards.  

Then realization dawns. “Bishop?” America asks, confused, and Kate thinks she’s never seen America confused before. Startled, yes, processing, a few times, but confused? Not really. She’s kind of cute like that.  

That is, her face is, from a totally objective view that implies no feelings on Kate’s part, which… Yeah.  

Whatever.  

“Holy _futz_ , I have never been happier to see you, you have no idea,” Kate pants, glancing back. They aren't around yet, but she knows they’re coming.  

America only stares at her. Kate stares back, waiting.  

“Get off me.”  

“Oh,” she says, smiling awkwardly and pushing herself to her feet. She offers a hand, but America waves it away. “We should catch up. I think we should, and there’s this coffee shop three blocks from here? Or I have coffee if you want it, and we don’t have to pay for it. But first, there’re these angry thugs chasing me for pissing off their boss over a stolen rosary and I kind of have to take care of that, so-”  

“So you want me to open a portal to get you out of here,” America says, resigned, already preparing to do her magical girl routine. “Got it.”

“Hm, no,” Kate blinks. “I was wondering if you wanted to help me beat them up, actually.”  

It’s America’s turn to blink now, surprised, but she quickly recovers. Looking away from Kate, toward the approaching goons getting bigger by the instant, she grins sharply and cracks her knuckles. “Now you’re talking, princess.”  

And beat them up is exactly what they do, which is delightful and the perfect sort of activity for them to engage in, honestly.  

There’s nothing like practicing your hobbies with your friends.  

***  

But that, great as it was, led them to Kate’s trailer, which is where the current mess started in. Though not right away.  

First they had coffee.  

“Private Eye?” America asks, dubiously. Kate nods.  

“Slash hero for hire. I have a flyer somewhere, but,” she looks around, knowing it’s useless. There are tiny piles of mess surrounding them, though she’s very strict about keeping it in a single spot, at least. Course, when your entire house is a small trailer, that doesn't mean much. “Yeah. But it rocked. I used Helvetica.”  

“Okay,” America drawls. “And how’s that going?”  

Kate preens. “Pretty well, as a matter of fact.”  

America toasts her with her cup. “Congratulations.”  

“Thanks. Why did you come by? I’m not complaining, mind, I’m just curious. You need my help?”  

But America is already shaking her head. “I didn't come here for you,” she points out. “I thought you were in New York. _You_  slammed into _me_ , I was just in the neighborhood.”  

Fair. “It was sort of a sudden move,” she says, and America makes a humming sound that means exactly nothing but it’s a nice intention. At least, Kate guesses it was.  

They fall into silence, which is not too uncomfortable to handle, but still. They are friends, they should have things to talk about, not just sit around sipping coffee like perfect strangers, giving Kate war flashbacks to some of her father’s most boring visitors.  

It’s just, they haven’t seen each other since New Year’s, when they had their most meaningful conversation and then hardly exchanged two words the rest of the evening, mostly by Kate’s own fault – she had gotten pretty distracted. And then they were together again but also with the rest of the team, as usual, and when she stops to think about it they haven’t been alone together much at all, for the time they've known each other.  

And that’s unacceptable, but when you’re cruising around in a ship that happens to belong to the guy you’re involved with, running from an inter-dimensional parasite and a handful of troublesome aliens, this sort of thing escapes your notice, somewhat.  

But it’s time to fix that.  

Somehow.  

Kate will think of something.  

She takes a good look at America, sitting on the edge of the bed opposite the couch Kate is sprawled in. She looks okay, but not as okay as she looked when they were all together, looking after each other. Not that she’s hurt; it’s really damn hard to hurt America Chavez. But she seems… Tired. Weary. Like her time on her own has been wearing her out, not so much that a stranger would notice, but a friend can see she's fraying around the edges, just barely.  

Kate doesn't like it.  

But other than that, she looks pretty good, actually. Like sunlight-glistening-in-her-hair-and-her-toothpaste-commercial-smile-lighting-up-her-face-when-she-plays-with-Lucky good. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, so nothing new there. Maybe some kind of 4th of July announcement, Kate can totally see it.  

“Do you only ever wear things flag-related?” Kate asks, because of course _that’s_  the topic she chooses to break the silence. Is this a side effect of hanging out with Clint? No, probably it’s a side effect of hanging out with _America_ , but whatever, she’s putting it on Clint, he can take it. America looks up, stunned. “Are those seriously the only clothes you own?”  

America lifts one perfectly defined, envy inducing brow. “Says the girl whose entire wardrobe is designed around the color purple.”  

“So? At least purple is a _color,_ not a _concept_. ‘Sides, not everything I own is purple.”  

Now the other brow joins the first one.  

“It’s true! Look,” Kate gets up and moves to the large crate she has adapted into a wardrobe, which, in the tight space of the trailer, means taking four steps forward, turn her upper body left and bend down. Quite practical, except for how it nearly drops her into America’s lap or slams Kate’s elbow on her face, but with minimal grumbling America flattens herself against the wall a little to the side and they make it work.  

Kate should have invested in a trailer way earlier.  

“Here,” she triumphantly pulls out a white undershirt and an aqua blue shirt combination. One she hasn't used in like, ever, or at least not since she settled in her own personal signature style, but America doesn't need to know that.  

America glances at it, rolls her eyes slightly and smirks. “Sure, that proves it.”  

Kate throws the clothes at her. “Whatever. You know what, it doesn't even matter, because I bet I can rock the hot blooded patriot look better than you could _my_  style.”  

She isn't sure why that’s her argument, but it sounds like a winning one.  

Instead of graciously admitting defeat, however, America leans forward, supporting her elbows on her knees. “What makes you so sure?”  

“It’s just aesthetics,” Kate shrugs. “I can rock any aesthetic.”  

America gives her a considering once over, and reclines back against the wall, crossing her arms. “Okay, then. What are we betting on?”  

And Kate’s mouth drops a little, because she wasn't expecting America to take it seriously. But, okay, if that’s what they’re doing now, she’ll roll.  

What does she have to lose?  

“Whoever can handle the other’s style for longer…” She looks around for inspiration, biting her lip, then snaps her fingers at an idea. “Gets the other’s favorite article of clothing.”  

America is unimpressed. Palpably so.  

“That’s it?” She asks, making a face. “What if I don’t want your clothes when I win?”  

“Oh, shut up. Okay, so. Loser also buys dinner?”  

After a second of consideration America smirks. “Deal.”  

The she gets up, heading for the door.  

“Where are you going?” Kate calls after her.  

America turns like Kate is the one who’s not making sense.  

“To buy some clothes,” she says, deliberately. “How else do you want to do this?”  

“We  _exchange_ ,” Kate says, shocked, because shouldn't that be obvious? They being already there, and that being the free option, which has quickly become Kate’s favorite option in any subject.  

“One problem,” America argues, coming back to where Kate is, only closer, and not _towering_  over her but definitely not on the same level. “I’m bigger than you.”

Kate pats her shoulder amicably. “I have loose clothes. And you can give me the ones you’re wearing now, but don’t forget to bring me a stash. And please don’t be sweaty.”  

And that’s the brief but mildly convoluted story of how Kate found herself in the mess she’s in now. Which isn't a terrible mess, but she’s starting to reconsider it as she puts on the red, white and blue outfit. America was right, it’s too large on her, but not awful either. She can win this.  

“How long are you planning to stick around?” Kate calls, loudly enough for America to hear though the bathroom door. “So I can keep you from cheating and all.”

“I have jack to do at the moment, so I can stay to keep _you_  from cheating for as long as it takes.”  

“Really?” Kate brightens, ignoring the cheating comment. “Then you can help me with the PI business!”  

Dry silence.  

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You can be my junior assistant in training.”  

“Try again.”  

“No one starts from the top, America.”  

More silence.  

“Fine,” Kate sighs, conceding. “You can be my partner.”  

She hears a soft chuckle. “I’ll think about it.”  

Kate huffs. “What’s there to think about? It’s an awesome gig.” She takes one last look at her reflection in the window, pulling a sleeve up her shoulder yet again. “I’m finished.”  

“Me too,” America says, opening the door, and Kate turns to look–  

Ah.  

Okay.  

They should have bought new clothes.  

Because while Kate was right – of course she was, it’s a thing that she does with some frequency, Clint would confirm it if he wasn't such a dweeb (and on that subject, Kate needs to call him or text him or something to make sure he hasn't died crushed under the weight of his own crap) – and the outfit does fit her, it fits her rather… Snugly. And it’s not that she’s never seen America in tight clothes before, it’s just _she’s never seen America in tight clothes before_ _._  

Seriously. They gallivanted together through the universe and the _multi_ verse, and never once has America opted for something form fitting. And it’s not like the rest of them are into skin tight spandex _per se_  (except possibly Noh-Varr and maybe Loki, but it’s hard to tell), but when trouble came up the unitards came out, and that’s just the way it was.  

But not to Miss America. No, America kept to her visual rendition of the American anthem through and through, looking entirely more comfortable than the rest of them put together all the way, and this is the first time Kate sees her in something that…  

Something that _hugs_.  

Not that it matters, of course, but it’s just–  

It clings and–  

Kate thought the shorts were bad enough.  

She needs a glass of water.  

Truth time: Kate is sort of in a sexuality crisis.  

Or more like a sexual reevaluation, really, but the point stands. She’s embarked in a summer journey of self discovery, so if there was ever a perfect time to do it, this is it. Besides, two of her best friends are a gay couple, her best neighbors are a married gay couple, and the entirety of her _team_  and people she hangs out with most aren't straight. The straightest person she knows is Clint, at this point, and then, she’s never asked.  

It gets a girl thinking.  

It gets a girl thinking since New Year’s, which is embarrassing because it’s all based in a throwaway joke that America didn't even mean and yet it was what caught Kate’s attention and made her wonder and examine and helped build this whole interest on America that would get rejected, rightfully so, even Kate can’t keep positive about this one. And she’s not about to share the thought; the last thing she wants is to make America uncomfortable or, worse, make her feel guilty of something that isn't her fault at all.  

It’s not her fault she’s brave and amazing and the figurative embodiment of an unstoppable force and an immovable object all in one. It’s not her fault she’s gorgeous, or that Kate can’t stop thinking about _how_  gorgeous she is.  

And she would know that, Kate thinks, but still she would feel responsible, somehow. All toughness aside (and on America’s case, that’s a _lot_ ), she’s one of the people who feel the strongest, out of all the people Kate knows. She cares, so deeply, and she looks over the people that matter to her, like her friends. Kate is her friend.  

She’s taking that as a responsibility.  

And she’s keeping her mouth shut about it.  

“It looks tight,” America complains. “Like I told you.”  

“Nonsense, it’s great,” Kate waves it away. “Now, partner, let’s talk about our first case.”  

“Is it the same one that got those _tontos_  in your tail?”  

“Yep. There’s this lady, right, who was supposed to inherit her grandmother’s rosary, but then her cousin – or second cousin or pseudo cousin, I’m not clear on that, but he’s that guy the whole family sort of hates – stole it. And I went to get it back, of course, but then I got involved with that gang you saw–”  

America lifts a finger. “A gang? Over a rosary?”  

“When it’s got a hard drive of stolen information inside, I guess it makes sense.”  

“Aren't rosaries tiny?”  

“Usually, I think, but this one’s like this big,” Kate says, showing the size with her fingers. America whistles; it’s a large space. “Anyway, he backed out on the deal, so now it’s a race of who gets to him first. Except, they’re inept. Like, really. And they’re waiting for me to do it first, which is the wisest decision they've made their entire lives, since _I_  know where he is. But I couldn't get to him when they were watching or they’d kill him. But _now_ , we've got an advantage…”  

“…We’re _we,”_ America grins, and Kate makes a finger gun her direction.  

“Right. We’ll go after him and I’ll distract them. Meanwhile, you get the guy, get the rosary and get the cash,” Kate spreads her hands. “It’s a brilliant plan.”  

“Except for one thing,” America argues. _“I’ll_  distract them.”  

She seems very interested in the idea.  

“Senior partner gets the fun job. Come on, let’s go now. We’ll get you some sheets for the couch on the way.”  

“Again: I’m taller than you,” America gets up, pulling her curls up on a ponytail. With her shorts and Kate’s purple shirt, that is a good color on her also, she looks great and put together. Kate, on the other hand, with her slipping off shirt and bike shorts, looks like a hot mess, but it’s only the first day. She’ll get there. “And the couch is smaller. By logic…”  

“Now, see,” Kate starts, and that’s the tone they keep all through the day. Kate had forgotten – except for how she hadn't forgotten at all – how nice it can be, to fight alongside someone else. Working alone has its perks too, yes. She loves it, even. But she also loves working with a team, with a partner, and always has.  

And America is especially nice to work with. They make one hell of a team. They should come up with a name, even. She doesn't know how long America will stick around, but as long as she’s there, Kate feels good things coming. They have barely started, but Kate is already almost sorry about it ending, if only she didn't believe in the now and all that.  

But then, when America leaves, Kate will have a piece of her clothing to remember the time by, so there's always that.  

***  

A few days into it, Kate takes Lucky for a walk on the beach a little after dawn.  

Or, more accurately, Lucky takes her. Or, even more accurately, neither takes the other; their entire friendship is based in mutual benefits, equality, companionship, and pizza. So no, she doesn't take him for a walk, they just take a walk together.  

Kate isn't sure she even owns a leash. Clint might have, but she hadn't prepared for Lucky coming with her, so she never thought to take it. It was probably brand new.  

She sits at her favorite place, an outcrop not too far from the trailer. Her chosen spot is the one rock that is flat on top, and she can sit there for hours, Lucky lying over her legs, and just take in the day. It’s still a little bit cold, but the sun is staring to warm the stone and soon enough she won’t even need America’s jacket to keep her comfortable.  

The beach is lovely at this hour, fluffy white sand and rocking waves. One day, she’s still going to come out at dawn, and watch the last bits of night turn into day in this very spot. Or maybe she’ll run the beach. She tends to get bored of the stillness after a while, craving movement and action, and when she spots the early runners from her windows, they seem happy.  

Eventually, when she starts to feel hungry (her way of measuring time when she’s relaxing) she gets up, dusts herself off and climbs down. Lucky follows her, ably skipping from rock to rock.  

“If I didn't know any better I’d say you’re a beach dog born and raised,” she compliments, patting his head. He woofs his agreement.  

Finch is in his porch, enjoying his morning coffee. Of the two, Marcus is the one Kate doesn't see until mid-morning, early afternoon on weekends. But Finch is always up before she is.  

“Morning, neighbor!” Kate calls, waving as she unlocks the front door. Lucky squeezes inside, searching for some water.  

He squints at her, in her American themed, purple free clothes. “Something’s different.”  

“I got a haircut,” she smiles, waving her fingers goodbye and following Lucky in.  

America is still sprawled on the couch, sheets and blanket kicked away from her, pillow covering most of her face. She’s not going to be up for a while, not until the smell of Kate’s breakfast rouses her.  

It’s not that she’s allergic to mornings, like Marcus. More that she has the same hours of sleep Kate has, but with a late start. She’s a night owl, to Kate’s surprise, and once they are done talking – something they spend a long time doing every night with no awkward silences now that they've found their groove –, she usually settles down with one of the few paperback novels Kate has around, some old titles she brought along and a growing collection aimed at criminal investigation for inspiration and guidance, under the lamp light, as to not disturb Kate, as if Kate hasn't slept through worst things, and she’s still up every time Kate goes under.  

Kate moving about doesn't wake her, either. She’s either a heavy sleeper or too tired to care. Nothing short of a world crisis gets America out of bed before she’s ready to. Unfortunately, in their line of work, that is entirely possible.  

Leaving her to it, Kate starts getting food ready. She has enough in her fridge to get two fried eggs going, and some fruit. Not bad, if they treat the fruit like a dessert. Can people have desserts at breakfast? Doesn't matter. They’ll make it work.  

Halfway through breaking the second egg, Kate hears a muffled sound from where America’s head has migrated entirely under the pillow.  

 _“Dios, mierda, ¿qué es esto?_ _”_ Kate hears, and yep, there’s the cat, leisurely sprawled over what is presumably America’s face.  

The cat _loves_  America.  

America is still debating whether she returns the feeling.  

“Morning,” Kate calls, because America isn't going to go back to sleep now anyway. “Breakfast is almost ready.”  

Pushing the cat away from her, she drags herself out of bed. She’s wearing white pajama bottoms and one of Kate’s largest purple t-shirts. She hadn't agreed to the frilly purple pajamas Kate had initially offered.  

“Eggs again?” She rubs the sand form her eyes. She looks tired, but normal tired. This unplanned vacation in Kate's trailer has been good for taking the shadows from under her eyes.  

“The very last two. We can go shopping today. Wait, are you going to be around today?”  

However much fun Kate is to be around, America still has things to do, whatever they are. Sometimes she would take a jump though a hole in the universe and disappear, but she had, until this moment, been back around dinner time.  

“Nothing today. Tomorrow, yes, but not today.”  

“Then you can meet the cat food guy,” Kate hands her a plate and an egg, fried only one side because Kate hasn't mastered how to do both yet. They keep breaking when she tries, and she’s tired of scrambled eggs as a fix up.  

America takes her first bite, giving Kate a disbelieving stare. She isn't convinced cat food guy is real yet.  

“You think I’m lying?” Kate had asked, after telling the story the first time.  

America had given her a crooked grin. “I think you took too much sun to the head.”  

“He’s real,” Kate tells her now, like she did before. “He might not be there today but he’s real. You think I would hallucinate a dude talking about cat food, frankly? I’m way more interesting than that.”  

“We’ll see,” America shrugs.  

As it turned out, cat food guy was not present, which did not look good for Kate, but they did get to do groceries. America likes grapefruit, something Kate can’t stand the taste of, but she is willing to try putting jam on chips, so Kate forgives her.  

They have no new cases, and therefore nothing to do. So they hang out. Kate has been showing America around LA, but the truth is, she doesn't know it all yet, and they discover it together. Sometimes they go to the movies, others they hang out, they even take a cheap boat ride one afternoon. They duck into a thrift shop and come back with an obnoxious flag themed bikini that Kate takes and wears with flair, like you do.  

Meanwhile, she does the best she can to not think about how America looks like in the purple one piece.  

(But _damn)._  

***  

“This is purple,” Kate says, putting another shirt on the bed. “And _this_  is _lavender.”_  

America shakes her head. “It’s the same thing.”  

“It’s not,” Kate sighs. She’s getting tired of this argument.  

It all started when Kate wondered whether giving America lavender or beet toned clothes would be breaking the deal, and she didn't think so, but it was worth checking. That had earned her a _look_ , and long story short, America did not give up her view point easily. Which, in this particular debacle, is “I do know the colors are different but your clothes are all the same”.  

“Look, it’s a very old argument; all you gotta know is, you’re wrong.”  

America throws her head back and laughs, and it doesn't sound like an agreement.  

Kate blows her bangs out of her face. “Okay. Let’s try again. This is lilac…”  

***  

Kate takes a deep breath.  

The wire tenses.  

Her back muscles tighten and lock.  

She steadies her breathing.  

Only one chance to get it right.  

“Ready?” She asks, and she can see the moonlight reflected on America’s teeth when she grins.  

America springs from their hiding place and grabs the heavy tool shed door. She tears it open like it weights nothing, nearly pulling it out of its hinges. The box they came here for is on the long table, surrounded by alarms they can’t see but know are there.  

Kate exhales.  

Relaxes her hand.  

The trick arrow, that she honestly can’t believe she found a real use for, hits its target perfectly, going through one of the rings set on the sides of the box to make it movable, and the nock opens and expands to trap it. Kate pulls it hard, and the box, not as heavy as it looked, thank god, skids from the table and flies through the air, landing at her feet.  

Shouts can be heard in the distance, coming from the main house.  

“Alarms on the door,” Kate says, unnecessarily. They both knew there would be when they drew the plan.  

America takes her fighting stance.  

“Wait, no! We’re incognito, remember?”  

“We are _caught_ ,” America points out. “Make a move, _chica_.”  

And okay, so they are already caught, but their identities shouldn't be compromised just because. But, what can you do? Fight or flight.  

They are fight people.  

“Alright,” she puts the box in a sack, pulls the drawstrings, and puts the bow back over her shoulder. “But we wrap it up fast.”  

They have dinner plans.  

***  

One day they just take a nap.  

***  

“Billy wants to meet,” Kate says over her shoulder, peering at the cell phone screen. She doesn't stop eating her cereal.  

“Thought he was in New York,” America says, from the floor where she’s dangling a string in front of the cat’s eyes. She’s decided she likes him.  

“He is. He wants to teleport over. You in?”  

“Sure, but I have a thing today,” America starts. “When does he want to come?”  

“Right now. I’ll tell him to come later.”  

“No, it’s fine,” America says, getting up. The cat meows pitifully. “I’ll catch up with you guys.”  

“On that little bakery, okay? I’ll text them the address.”  

America chuckles. “Like you ever go anywhere else, princess.”  

It’s true. They make amazing caramel cappuccinos. Kate has a weakness.  

“I’ll walk you there,” America offers, so Kate finishes her text, pockets her phone and jumps to her feet, straightening her clothes. It’s the sweatshirt today, and it’s lovely but does look better in America, with her height and skin color. Slightly so. Not that Kate is admitting it.  

She opens her arms, making a pose. “How do I look?”  

America gives her a look, deeper than it should be, and she appears so intent that Kate feels a shiver, like an itch right under her skin that she doesn't know how to scratch. It reminds her of New Year’s, when America looked at her much the same way, from the corner of her eye at the bottom of the stairs.  

_How do I look?_

_Like a princess, princess._   

And Kate didn't know what to feel then and she doesn't know what to feel now, but there’s no time to think anyway. America shrugs it off and the moment, if it was even one, slips away like it never happened, except in Kate’s mind.  

“Patriotic,” she half smiles, burying her hands in her pockets. “Shall we?”  

And Kate does one of the things she does best; smiles and pretends everything's okay.  

They talk on the way to the bakery.  

But America hardly looks at her again at all.  

***  

The bakery is warm and a little crowded, popular with the locals for the cheerful reception and amazing food. Kate met Billy and Teddy – who’d come along, to virtually no one’s surprise, he and Billy are joined at the hip – out in the front, and they snagged a corner booth just as the previous occupants were leaving.  

There’s a girl sitting on the other side of the room, right in Kate’s line of vision. She’s blonde and small and cute, perhaps one or two years younger than Kate is.

She notices these things now. Maybe, she thinks, she always did, but now she notices she notices. Before, she would look at anyone who caught her eye, a natural reaction, but it only registered as checking someone out with the boys. But, if she really looks back, seeing ladies isn't a new thing for her.  

The second girl she befriended in third grade, with the thin dark braids all over her hair. Her father’s parties, attended by the woman elected the most beautiful in the world. The female swim team in her high school. Whitney Frost at the hotel’s pool, the last time she almost-questioned herself before she questioned herself (though unfortunately, the beautiful, friendly woman Kate met first in LA turned out to be the psychopath she knew already, and nothing could come out of it, or Kate might have had her sexuality crisis earlier than this).  

Billy is saying something. Kate starts to pay attention.  

“– And we wanted to bring everybody, but Eli still won’t come and Noh was… And Loki is… Yeah. Oh, and Tommy and David are off to parts unknown, doing unknown things.”  

“We actually know what they’re doing,” Teddy puts in. “They did it at the house once. But we decided not to think about it.” Kate raises her eyebrows.  

“What? Can you blame us?” Billy asks, adding sugar to his coffee and stirring it. “He’s a great guy and I care about him. I hate to think that this could go wrong,” he takes a sip. “And Tommy is my brother.”  

Kate throws the abandoned sugar pack at his face. “That doesn't work if he’s not here to tease back.”  

Billy sighs. “It does lose something,” he agrees, a bit morose. Teddy puts a hand on his shoulder, not even noticing he’s doing it, Kate guesses. Billy smiles again. “But say, what’s been going on in the exciting life of Kate Bishop?”  

“That’s the exciting life of Kate Bishop, PI for you,” she preens. Talking about her job, that she started for herself with no one's help (like, say, her father's) gives her that reaction. “It’s good. Sunny. Not as exciting as you think, though.”  

Not lately, anyway, and considering what her last ‘excitements’ were, she has to say she’s happy about it.  

“And what about you and America?” Teddy asks.  

“We’re… Good?” Teddy gestures with his hand, wordlessly asking her to elaborate. “She’s great. I’m great. We’re amazing. You’ll have to be more specific.”  

“Fine. What’s up with your thing?”  

“What thing? There’s no thing.”  

At least there’s no thing these two should know about.  

“The clothes thing.”  

Ah, that. Whatever, then.  

“We've got a bet.”  

Billy and Teddy exchange one of their couple glances, and it’s so annoying because Kate knows they are having an entire conversation she’s being left out of.  

“Is that _all_  this is?” Teddy asks, in his kindest voice, which is pretty damn kind but it makes Kate square her shoulders anyway. “We saw you two out there, and… Well, I don’t know, but you looked pretty… Tense.”  

“In the romantic sense,” Billy adds, and puts his palms up when Kate turns to him. “Don’t look at me like that! Just saying,” he bites his lip. “You _know_  we’re cool with it, right? We can’t _not_ be cool with it.”  

“That would be huge hypocrisy,” Teddy nods.  

Kate has to look away, down to her lap. Funny thing, as it turns out, she didn't know she needed the support until she got it. But her friends knew, or just gave it regardless, because that’s what they _do_. That’s what friends do, and sometimes Kate misses it and them and being with them in New York or a space ship or wherever so hard she can’t even breathe.  

“It might be a thing,” she shrugs, casually. She doesn't need to tell them her thought process. There’s a big chance they know already, even. “That I've been thinking about a lot lately, and I think I figured it out and I’m fine with it. More than fine. But America has nothing to do with it, I swear.”  

Wow, when did she become such a bad liar?  

“Uh-hu,” Billy is unconvinced. “Whatever you say. But look into my eyes and tell me that this,” he gestures at her clothes, but seems to encompass her entire existence and current life situation. “has no meaning.”  

Kate looks into his eyes.  

“It has no meaning,” she says.  

Billy is even more unconvinced.  

It doesn't matter. He can’t prove anything, and Kate has learned, during her short career as a private eye and longer career at Clint-handling, to be patient, look people in the eye, and don’t drop your bluff unless someone can call it.  

And so, she keeps cool. Totally cool. So cool she could melt right there on her seat, making a little Kate-puddle. But then she would run into the drain and gets stuck with the gross things, so she hopes she can evaporate first–  

Point is. She’s cool. Frosty cool. Emma Frost frosty cool. Okay, maybe not so cool, but still.  

She’s composed, okay? That's where she's going with this.  

Billy has no evidence.  

And he knows it too, because he sighs again, a deeper, very pointed sigh that says he’s sure she’s lying, and looks away first. Looks straight at Teddy, and they have the silent conversation again.  

 _God_. Kate wants to drop her head onto the desk.  

“It’s fine, Kate,” Teddy smiles at her. “You don’t have to tell us anything. But, if I can give any advice, you should tell America. Trust me, it’s worth it.”  

And he gives Billy this completely besotted stare that gets an equally gooey one in return.  

 _Are you paying attention to anything I say?!_  Kate wants to shout, but she also wants America to show up soon and make her stop feeling like such a third wheel.

This is why it's hard to be around them most times; it’s not that she doesn't love them and isn't happy for them, because she is, but it’s just…  

Kate isn't rich anymore, and she has a cat and a dog to support on her own, and the dog is fine, can be sustained on regular dog chow and the occasional pizza slice of the cheap variety, but the cat will only eat a very specific brand of cat food that isn't only expensive, but sometimes needs to be conjured out of thin air by her market guru slash spiritual guide slash life coach, or whatever cat food guy _is,_ if America isn't right about him and he's actually real.  

And Billy and Teddy are so absolutely, all encompassing, nauseatingly in love with each other that Kate can feel cavities forming, and she can’t afford to go to the dentist every time she sees them.  

And, also. Well. It reminds her she’s very alone right now.  

Not that she doesn't love this solo chapter on her life story and all that. But she left everything and everyone she loved behind in New York, and she misses them. Kate likes being with people she cares about, she enjoys cultivating and keeping relationships. And while she’s independent, by nature, she’s not a loner.  

Hanging out with America has helped her quite a bit with that, actually. New friendships are great, but familiar faces you've braved the universe in all its dangers and all its breakfast houses are like nothing else in the world. But on the other hand, being around America herself is so difficult. It doesn't do a single thing to ease her crush, for one, and it gives her such a vivid picture of what it could be.  

Could be but isn't.  

Could be but won’t.  

Basically, being without America or being with America, both are a double edged sword and it doesn't make any difference, and everything sucks.  

Kate hates that so much.  

And it’s with a little bitterness but also undeniable, embarrassing butterflies in her stomach that she greets America when she arrives, in the purple tank top, and drops herself besides Kate.  

She doesn't know how her life got to be the way it is, but Kate’s pretty sure she didn't agree to it, and she wants a refund.  

(At least Billy and Teddy don’t mention anything. Only once, when Teddy asked America what was it like living together, and she had answered “A regular picnic,” and it hadn't even sounded like sarcasm. Billy had wiggled his eyebrows at Kate suggestively, and she had tried to kick him under the table.  

She’s pretty sure she hit Teddy, but oh well.  

He can relay the message).  

***  

Sometimes, when Kate does good deeds for modest fees, if they happen to involve an approaching celebration, she gets an invitation. Like the time she helped Will Bryson and attended his concert for the Wish record. Or when she helped Finch and Marcus and got to stay for the wedding.  

This time, it’s the opening of a club.  

She and America get the VIP treatment, which is quite nice, but, she has to agree with America there, no less than they deserved. This was a particularly messed up case and they still haven’t gotten all of the paint from their hair.  

Free drinks and privileged seating don’t begin to cover for it.  

“I’m so happy I’m twenty-one,” she shouts to America, sipping her drink. It’s bright blue and delicious and she has no clue what it is. She wasn't feeling like thinking of anything much, and hadn't even glanced at the menu. Instead, she had asked the bartender for a drink she never got to make, and the woman had smiled and replied “Do you like blueberries?”  

It’s not very strong, though, but that’s alright. It’s 22:24h, and she’s on her first drink.  

“Why are you drinking soda?” She shouts again.  

“I don’t like the taste of alcohol much,” America replies, but Kate can only see her lips move.  

“What?”  

“I said, I don’t like the taste of alcohol!”  

“What?”  

America starts to laugh, and Kate laughs along with her, not sure why but feeling giddy and happy and at peace with the world. It’s shaping up to be a great night.  

***  

It’s 00:18h, and they are leaning very close to each other, trying to hear the words spoken.  

“You have to see the big picture,” America is saying, illustrating her point with expansive hand gestures. “When you’re in a new dimension, you can't assume anything. You don’t know why the world’s like that, or _what_  it's like, so you figure out first, and move on from there.”  

Kate nods sagely, but the truth is, she’s had two more of the fruity blue drinks and a glass and a half of something heavier, and the room is starting to feel like cotton around her. She’s not exactly in the best state of mind for in-depth conversations, but she’s willing to hear if America’s in the mood to share.  

“And what’s it like to. You know. Open the stars.”  

“Like cold water in my veins,” America says after a beat. “But good.”  

“Awesome,” Kate tells her, and she’s really talking about America’s face under the strobe light, but the feeling stands.  

***  

It’s 01:46 and they are laughing of something. Kate doesn't know what, but she thinks she started it.  

***  

It’s 02:43h and they are on the dance floor. It took a lot of convincing on Kate’s part, and America is a great dancer so that’s lame. She should be dancing always.

She should have danced in New Year’s.  

But she can dance with Kate now, ‘tis fine. They can dance…  

And they have to touch a lot but there’s just no room.  

***  

It’s 03:21 and they are home and Kate kisses America.  

***  

For a second, it’s great, their lips sliding together, soft, slick, and tasting sweet from the drinks.  

But a second is all it lasts.  

“Wow,” America steps away, eyes wide. Kate had sort of been counting on her support to stay upright, so that’s a very bad move for her. But America steps back in before she can reach the floor. “What are you doing, _chica?”_  

“Sorry didn't mean to oops,” Kate mumbles, and giggles, and trips.  

“Right,” America says, putting Kate’s arm around her shoulders. “Time to go to bed.”  

She mustn't have meant that as a come on, but Kate takes it like that. Or rather, Kate doesn't pay too much attention, but America smells _so good_  and when she’s deposited on the mattress, she doesn't want to let go.  

“Come on,” she says, pulling America’s arms with the weight of her whole body. America doesn't budge.  

“Princess,” she sighs, and the way she looks at Kate…  

It’s completely miserable but also like she’s about to say yes.  

But she doesn't. She detaches Kate’s hands from her arms, and Kate can feel her fingers trace the lines of her wrist, and that’s it. She then lays Kate down, pulls the blankets over her shoulders and smiles without any joy.  

Kate wants to ask about it, or try to hug her, or say something, but she’s falling asleep even as she thinks it.  

***  

When Kate wakes up, her pillow is covered in drool, and she has a headache.  

It’s not a very strong one, though. See, she didn't drink that much last night. Not enough for a hangover that makes her want to crawl into the earth and stay there when she wakes up, and not enough to forget what she did.  

Crap. Oh, crap. Crap, crap, crap.  

How could she be such an ass? _Christ_. She knows, she knew all along that America didn't think of her like that, why couldn't she keep better control of herself?

She trusts America enough to get drunk with her, but _she’s_  the one she shouldn't have trusted.  

 _Katie, what the hell did you do?_ , she thinks, hiding her face deeper into the pillow. Then she gets up as fast as she’s able and stumbles out of bed, searching for–

“Morning,” America is in the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand, watching Kate’s progress. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to die?”  

“Not much,” Kate replies, squinting at her. Something’s wrong, but she can’t put her finger in it.  

“Then you’re good to eat?”  

Kate approaches the table. “I guess. What are we having?”  

“We ran out of groceries again, so nothing. But there’s juice. And I got you Tylenol.”  

“You’re a queen,” Kate informs her, already saying goodbye to her headache. She moves closer to where the glass of orange juice and the pills are located, and in doing so, she can see the canvas bag by America’s feet.  

And suddenly it clicks. What’s wrong in the picture.  

America is wearing her own clothes.  

“Yeah,” she says, noticing Kate’s fixed glance. “Something came up, I gotta go. Sorry.”  

“You’re not coming back this time?” Kate sits on the stool, because she has to.  

“Not for a while,” America shuffles her weight from one foot to the other. That’s funny. Kate’s never seen her uncomfortable before. It’s the second new sentiment she sees America show since she stumbled into her.  

And now it’s the last one.  

“I've got something for you,” she says, turning around to reach for something Kate can’t see until she turns back.  

It’s the jacket. The white jacket with the stars and the stripes and the hood, America’s favorite.  

Now Kate’s.  

Kate doesn't reach for it.  

America puts it around her shoulders. That makes her get very close to Kate, and Kate stares up at her face, trying to see something there, wanting to say something, anything. There’s a prolonged instant when they just stay this way, America nearly hugging her and Kate level with her chin. Then America steps back.

“There you go,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. She punches Kate’s shoulder lightly. “You win. You can pull it off.”  

She puts her canvas bag over her shoulder and walks to the door, stopping in her path to scratch Lucky behind the ears. The cat isn't around. He’s going to feel terrible when he comes back from his stroll and finds America gone.  

Kate relates.  

America opens the door and turns back. “Bye, then,” she waves, and steps down.  

And Kate is left alone in the kitchen, the jacket over her shoulders, feeling like utter crap.  

Lucky trots over to her, sitting at her feet. “What the hell now, boy?”  

He tips his head to the side and whines, but if it’s an answer she doesn't understand.  

This lasts five seconds. Then she realizes, _what on earth am I doing?_

She’s Kate Bishop. She doesn't wallow. She _acts_.  

“America!” She calls, jumping out of the stool and running out the door. America is still there, every star on her glowing, the portal formed but not kicked through yet. “Wait!”  

She slides to a stop in front of America, nearly slamming into her but stopping herself just in time.  

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about last night, you have no idea. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable and I know that I did and I feel so bad, but you don’t have to leave because of it. I mean. If you want to leave, then that’s fine too, but you don’t have to feel like you should because I made an ass of myself.”  

America raises her palm, frowning. “You _remember_  what happened last night?”  

“Hm, yeah,” Kate confirms, running a hand through her hair, ashamed. She kicks a rock in the ground, and it’s bigger than it looked at first, so it doesn't move and she hurts her toe, which is a metaphor for her _entire freaking life_. “I do. And I feel terrible. I knew – know – that you don’t want anything like that with me and that I made you feel guilty and I… I’m sorry.” She wishes there was something else she could say. “But I promise you, it will never be a problem again,” Kate swears. “It doesn't have to be weird with us. We’re still friends,” she bites her lip. “Right?”  

America’s mouth has dropped open, and she stares at Kate like she’s never seen her before. “Bishop,” she says, voice colored with astonishment. “What the hell is wrong with you?”  

Kate doesn't even have time to feel offended, because America steps into her space and kisses her.  

It feels so much better now, when both are in full possession of their faculties and want this and the kiss last for more than a few seconds.  

A lot longer, in fact, enough for America to put her hands on Kate’s hips, then slip them around her waist. Kate hugs her neck, letting her fingers tangle in America’s hair, and America bites her lower lip and _oh god_ , her brain short circuits. It’s so much better than she ever imagined it and she has imagined it extensively so that’s saying a lot.  

“ _Dios_ , Kate,” America breathes, and hey, that’s another first. Kate doesn't remember the use of her first name before in this relationship. "You were _drunk,_ was I supposed to take advantage? I didn't want to be something you'd regret in the morning. You honestly thought I wasn't into you?”  

“Well, yeah,” Kate pants. She can feel her face flushing “I thought. You know. That you wouldn't want to be the first girl I got involved with and that you didn't want to mess up our friendship and that you didn't even see me like that anyway.”  

“Oh, that,” America rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too wide to seem serious. She touches her forehead to Kate’s. “You’re absurd, do you know that?”  

“Does this mean you’re not leaving anymore? Because I’m not giving your jacket back.”  

America laughs. “Keep it. It looks hot on you.”  

Kate _has_  to kiss her again.  

But then she pulls back. America follows her, however, and her lips find Kate’s neck when she turns her face. It’s very distracting, but Kate makes a valiant effort, pushing at her shoulders.  

“Wait, wait, I have to tell you something,” she says, trying to look into America’s eyes, not at her mouth. “Even if you don’t go now, I know you’re gonna take off eventually, to do… The thing that you do. I don’t actually know what that is, sorry. But in between that, you can come here, and we can do this again. But, like. Better.”  

 _You don’t have to sleep in the couch anymore, for one thing,_ she wants to say, but Kate has class, okay? She isn't _forward_.  

Much.  

America steps in closer, a feat in itself since they were so close already. “That’s good to know, princess.”  

“Good,” Kate beams, then shakes a finger in front of America’s face. “Now, you better show up soon. The cat will miss you.”  

“Oh?” America lowers her face again, so she and Kate are breathing the same air. “And what else?”  

“And…” Kate rocks forward on her toes, which only hurts a little bit where she kicked the rock. When she’s so close that America’s face is out of focus, she smirks. “You own me dinner.”  

America groans, but she puts no resistance when Kate kisses her again, laughing into her mouth.  

They have to go back to the trailer when they hear Finch whistling from his doorstep.

**Author's Note:**

> I said I wasn't going to post this sort of fic here unless it got bigger than my shortest fic at the time, adn it did, so... The tumblr mirror is [ here](<a%20href=), and I appreciate any feedback.


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